


The Warlord's Prize

by Badfish _original porn be warned_ (FishPanda)



Series: The Warlord and His Prince (AKA that orc/elf noncon no one but me wanted) [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Forced Orgasm, Large Cock, M/M, Maybe Fetishization?, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Orc Warlord/Captured Elven Prince, Orc/Elf - Freeform, Painful Sex, Probably fantasy racism, Public Humiliation, Public Sex, Rape, Size Difference, Size Kink, The Orc warlord is REALLY into the way the elf prince looks, Threats of Gang Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:13:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28088310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishPanda/pseuds/Badfish%20_original%20porn%20be%20warned_
Summary: Inspired by Devin Cage’s Warprize. An orc warlord spots a beautiful elven prince across the battlefield and takes him as his spoils of war. And then takes him over his dead father’s throne in front of an appreciative orc army.
Relationships: Orc Warlord/Captured Elf Prince
Series: The Warlord and His Prince (AKA that orc/elf noncon no one but me wanted) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2063046
Comments: 6
Kudos: 146





	The Warlord's Prize

**Author's Note:**

> So I’ve recently read Devin Cage’s Warprize (https://archiveofourown.org/works/14881646) and it hit like 95% of my kinks but also seared the scenario into my memory. After my stupid brain kept me up until 4:00 a.m. basically writing this in my head, I figured I’d give it ago, if only so I can get some proper sleep. This is definitely inspired by Warprize but in my own style.
> 
> Please pay attention to the tags – this is most certainly noncon. Also, though I’ve read a lot of noncon I’ve never written it before so this might be completely crap. Mostly it’s a mix of purple prose and weirdly eloquent orcs and the worst cliches of old-school high fantasy. The sex doesn’t even happen until 2,500 words in. If that all sounds like your cup of tea than on your head be it.

The halls of his forefathers are cold. The orcs have taken his armor and weapons, leaving Llianderin Arlen’uin in only his thin silk tunic and leggings, bare toes scrunching on the marble floor. His temple throbs where he was hit, the scratches already scabbed over and pulling as he grimaces in pain at the harsh bite of the rope binding his wrists.

Behind him, he can hear thousands of jeering soldiers, baying for his blood. In front of him, the orc warlord splays smugly on the throne that only that morning sat Llianderin’s father, the king of Syh Esaryia; the throne that should have, by right, one day belonged to Llianderin himself. Syh Esaryia is no more, its marble towers and sprawling gardens lit on fire, its people cut dead in its streets and left for scavengers.

As far as Llianderin knows, he is the last of his people. His only comfort is that soon, he will be rejoining them, though only the Goddess knows what he will have to endure beforehand.

The warlord stands. Llianderin cannot stop himself from jerking back, only to be pushed roughly forward again by the guards behind him.

His studies taught him that orcs were of the same height as elves, though that is where the biological similarities ended. Elves are slender and light-boned, their main advantage being their speed and their long lives, which enable them to reach such expertise that few can best them. Orcs, in comparison, tend to be heavy boned and heavily muscled, favoring brute force over skill and killing with uncivilized bloodlust. The average orc, from what he has observed today, is an ugly, brutish-looking thing, flat-faced and pockmarked and filthy. Even the humans and dwarves he met before when they passed through the kingdom were better looking.

The warlord, however, is not an average orc.

He stands at least three heads above everyone else in the halls. Under his clothing, a mix of leathers and furs and bits of metal, his shoulders are as wide as an ox, his arms corded with muscle, his thighs rippling as he walks towards his captive. While he is as ugly a sight as the rest of them, his yellow eyes betray a cunning far beyond any Llianderin ever attributed to his race. There is a formidable intelligence behind that savage face, one that sends a fearful shiver down Llianderin’s spine.

The warlord stops just shy of touching Llianderin. His towering form makes the elf feel powerless in a way the ropes, the soldiers, haven’t managed. This is a creature who could kill him with one blow, break his neck with just his fingers. He is not afraid to die, and yet the thought is chilling.

His fear seems to amuse the orc, who smiles, revealing gleaming white teeth and some very prominent fangs. “Hello, little princeling,” he says, “how kind of you to join us at last.”

  
Afraid he may be, but Llianderin is also his father’s son; though his kingdom is no more, he is still its prince, as long as he lives. He holds his head high, striving to give off the impression of looking down his nose at someone who positively dwarfs him. “I apologize for any tardiness,” he says thinly, proud when his voice doesn’t shake. “I am not currently in charge of my own schedule, as you may be aware.”

He is not adapt at reading orc faces, but his captor seems surprised at his response, smirk growing. There is a look in his eyes Llianderin cannot interpret.

“Indeed. You have not missed much, I assure you. In fact,” the warlord tosses a grin over Llianderin’s head at the soldiers behind him, who pick up their jeering again, “you could say that we could not start at all, without you; you are our main guest of the night.”

This is it, then. Llianderin steels himself. “How am I to be executed, then?” None of the possibilities that run through his mind are anything short of terrifying; but the wait will only make the suspense worse.

“Executed?” his captor is not surprised at the question, instead seeming on the verge of a laugh. “My dear prince, why would I execute you? That would be such a waste, after I have gone to all this trouble to procure you.”

Llianderin’s blood freezes in his veins. All at once, he realizes what that look from before was: lust. He is not a stranger to admiring gazes; even among his own people, he was considered exceptionally beautiful, and had passed many a night of mutual pleasure with one or more of his suitors. But among elven society, seduction and subtility were the name of the game, and anything bolder than a look sent under one’s lashes was considered uncouth.

The look the orc leader was leveling at him, however, had hunger enough to raze cities.

**********

The battle is going well. The armies of Naz’ul Iron Fist, orc warlord over all the tribes, are suffering casualties; the elves are skilled warriors. But they are vastly outnumbered by the orc army, which has managed to push them back as far as their capital city by burning the forests their archers loved to take refuge in. The elves are not used to battle, for all their training; the orc army has been waging a constant war on the continent for two decades now, and his warriors handle it with the skill of veterans.

A glint of silver catches his eye some several hundred paces away. One of the elven archers has just taken off his helmet, or had it knocked off, sending a spill of silvery hair that gleams in the weak sunlight over his shoulders. A closer glance through his looking glass makes Naz’ul’s breath catch in his chest.

He is not, on a whole, a great appreciator of beauty. He knows the other races covet them, but to him gold and jewels have their place only insofar as they denote his rank and power, and his weapons and armor are chosen for functionality and quality more than anything else. He has gold and gems in his braids, one gold bead for each battle he won and one gemstone bead for each king he slayed, but he has never given much thought to their shape. He chooses his bed partners from among his own warriors based on their skill in battles, and has never given much weight to unblemished skin or pleasing features, rather to the fight they would give him beneath the furs. He gives his armies free reign to avail themselves of their conquered foes after battle, but never before has he had any interest in nabbing a living prize of his own. Until now.

Elves are known to be quite beautiful, and many of his followers were… enthusiastic as a result when he announced his plans to conquer this elven kingdom twelve moons ago. But the face staring at him through his looking glass, even in miniature, is of such exquisite loveliness that Naz’ul feels his mouth go dry with a lust the likes of which he has never felt before.

He calls over several of his personal guard, motioning at the figure. Though the elf has placed the helmet over his head again, he is distinguishable from his fellow archers by his armor, which even at this distance seems to bear the royal insignia of house Arlen’uin. A prince, perhaps?

“Capture him. Alive and well,” Naz’ul warns. “Let no harm come to him.”

His personal guard cuts a swath through the battle field, reaching the knot of archers quickly. Though two of his guards go down, they are not the best for nothing; soon the other archers, who are attempting to defend the figure in royal insignia, fall to their swords and axes.

The capture seems to spark a change in the fighting elven forces. A great cry goes up, and they start fighting even more desperately, converging on the guard and the slumped figure lain between them. Naz’ul spots the elven king’s banner appearing from between the trees, and unsheathes his greatsword with a feral grin; finally. His guard would be fine. He has a king to slay.

In the end, Naz’ul’s impulsive decision to capture a prize for himself turns out to be a stroke of luck. It unbalances the elven forces, makes them reckless, and lures the king out into the open far earlier than Naz’ul expected. None can match him in battle; the elven warriors in his path are cut down as though they are wheat falling before a scythe, and the elven king, though undoubtedly a skilled warrior in the face of any other opponent, is cleaved with one blow in a fight so quick it could hardly be called one. The elven spirit breaks after that, though Naz’ul has to offer some begrudging respect, as much as he is loath to respect anything about those insufferable bastards who think everyone beneath them except their own kin; each and every one of them fights to the death rather than attempt to run. His warriors will not have much living prizes to gain from this battlefield.

The battle is over by high noon. Naz’ul’s personal guard approach as he is giving his final orders to his chiefs, Fen’ril carrying the unconscious elf over his shoulder. While a few of the tribal chiefs glance curiously at the figure, especially at his decorated armor, by now they know better than to question their ruler on his personal matters. Naz’ul himself needs to go with them; while some of his forces will be staying on the battle field to tend to and guard the wounded, most of the army is already moving toward the elven city, no doubt to pillage and burn everything in its path. As the warlord, he needs to be there to keep matters from descending into complete chaos.

“I am placing him under your care until the celebration feast this evening,” Naz’ul motions to Fen’ril and three other guards. “Remove his weapons, treat his wounds if he has any, but do not let any harm come to him; he is mine, do you understand”?

The city is almost deserted by the time the orc army arrives. It seems the elves sent the populace away as soon as they realized it could possibly fall, and the few elven soldiers left to cover their retreat are killed or captured in minutes. Some of Naz’ul’s chiefs organize hunting parties to go after the fleeing people, but most set to looting. Soon, anything that can be easily carried or melted down is being hauled out of the houses and brought to his quartermaster to register and distribute.

When Naz’ul first rose to power and took over as the orc warlord, some tried to challenge his rulings, chaffed at how he changed the old ways and organized all the tribes into a single army under one ultimate commander. But orcs respect power above all else, and he was then and is now much more powerful than any other orc. After so many years under his rule, his warriors now know better than to defy him.

No one would be stupid or suicidal enough to challenge him for his prize, no matter how lovely. Still, to make his position on the matter absolutely clear – especially if those hunting parties returned empty – it is better to make a public declaration of intent and give his warriors some quality entertainment to quiet their frustration at the same time. And if the captured elf really is the prince… well, there is something particularly satisfying about the thought of forcing a smug, snobbish elven royal to his knees before him, of parading him naked and humiliated in front of the entire orc army, and of making him take Naz’ul’s cock in front of all those gleeful watching eyes, on all fours, not like an equal but like a dog. Naz’ul can stand to be generous to his warriors.

At least the first time.

**********

Naz’ul likes this elven hall. The palace is built with the same airy, soaring, vaguely plant-like architecture the elves always seem to favor, all white marble and wide windows. The hall is bigger than even his own hall back home, though its walls are bare where Naz’ul’s are decorated in trophies and the crowns – and sometimes skulls – of his defeated foes. But it is roomy enough to host not just his chiefs and personal guard but also his captains and other ranked underlings. The flickering of the fires that are raging throughout the city can be glimpsed from the windows, illuminating the faces of those soldiers eager to see the upcoming spectacle but too low-ranking to obtain a place within the hall.

As soon as they finish feasting, he sends for his prize. The elf is escorted into the hall by the guard, who ring him tightly enough to make sure no one made a grab for him as he was led through the common soldiers that crowd the palace. There is a momentarily hush as the crowd glimpses him before the noise level racks up even louder than before, everyone present calling out lewd comments and suggestions as to what exactly he should do to this captive.

The ruckus allows Naz’ul to hide his own reaction, the split second in which he froze upon seeing the elf not through a looking glass but up close and personal. Because by the Dark Lady, he is the most exquisite thing Naz’ul has ever seen.

The elf’s pale skin looks as soft and easily bruisable as flower petals. The silvery hair that first caught the warlord’s eyes across the battlefield is a shimmering mass across his shoulders. His face has all the severe lines and sharp cheekbones typical of his race, but softened by a trembling rosebud of a mouth and large, glorious eyes; wide with fright, they are a luminous blue-purple color that is incredibly striking even when glimpsed under his lowered, shivery lashes. His narrow build, which his clothes do nothing to hide, is nothing like an orc or even a human; more than anything, he reminds Naz’ul of a faun or a horse colt, all elongated, slender limbs and the sharp bones of creatures still deep into their adolescence. He is the brightest thing Naz’ul has ever seen, something worlds apart from the warlord and his orcs, and he is all Naz’ul’s: to look at, to touch, to taste, and to fuck.

“Prince Llianderin Arlen’uin of Syh Esaryia,” Fen’ril announces mockingly. “Or perhaps more accurately, the former prince of what was once Syh Esaryia.”

Up close, the elf looks unreal, like one of the marble statues that Naz’ul saw as the army marched through the city. He also smells overwhelmingly of fear, though he puts up a brave enough face; a little fire is something the warlord can admire, at least for now. Underneath the fear he smells like sunlight and ripe fruit, a heady scent that makes Naz’ul’s nostrils flare with desire. He wonders if the prince smells like that everywhere; were he to spread the elf's cheeks and bury his nose there, will it smell the same? Will it be riper, darker? If he pushes his tongue into him, how will it taste?

Naz’ul likes the elf’s voice, too, musical and refined, all proper rounded vowels. He wonders how it will sound when he makes the elf beg, when Naz’ul’s cock is so deep inside him he screams, and how long will he need to scream before his voice is nothing but a hoarse whimper. The warlord looks forward to finding out.

It is obvious the prince was sheltered during his upbringing; there is no other reason he would think he was brought here for his execution, no other reason for him to realize his true purpose here only after Naz’ul stated it clearly. He rears back only to run into the guard. The entire hall laughs uproaringly. Were Naz’ul capable of pity, he would have pitied the prince. As it is, he only feels amusement, anticipation, and such potent lust that he has no doubt a single coupling will not be enough to take the edge off.

No longer willing to entertain this façade of civility, Naz’ul grabs the elf’s tunic and pulls; it tears in his hands like paper, the leggings following a moment later. The prince gasps wetly, eyes filling with furious tears, the color blooming high on his cheekbones a crack in the marble mask. Even as he chokes out a “stop! Don’t!” he attempts to bring his bound hands down to hide his soft cock.

As the fervor of the crowd reaches fever pitch, Naz’ul drinks his fill. Though the elf has virtually no fat on his bones, strength is evident in the planes of his flat torso and the quivering muscles of his thighs. Aside from the neat little thatch of silvery hair from which sprouts his cock – slightly small for an orc of his height though Naz’ul has no knowledge of elf cocks to compare – his body is virtually hairless. His small nipples have pebbled in the cold and when Naz’ul reaches to twist them non-too-gently, the way his entire body goes taught is very pleasing, as are his shouted denials. His flawless skin is begging for Naz’ul’s hands to mark it, his collarbones and hipbones begging for a bite. His ass is minimal, like the rest of him, nothing like anyone Naz’ul has bedded before, but it is nicely rounded and firm to the touch when he squeezes it.

The elf is whimpering. When Naz’ul raises his eyes again, the prince’s face is wet. “Please don’t do this,” he begs, looking up at the warlord. The color of his eyes is even more spectacular when brimming with tears. “I’d rather die.”

Naz’ul doesn’t particularly care what the elf wants. He is going to fuck him today, and tomorrow, and probably every day after that. Maybe several times a day, when he has the leisure. The elf is his now, to do as he pleases, and the sooner he accepts his new reality the happier he will be. Still…

He turns the elf to face the exhilarated crowd. There are around 400 heavily armed orcs in the room, most of them still splashed with the blood of the prince’s people; many more orcs are jostling at the windows, barring their teeth at the terrified elf. Naz’ul feels his little body tremble uncontrollably where he’s pressed against the warlord’s torso. “I could give you to them,” he suggests, though he has absolutely no intention of doing so. “They will tear you to shreds, but I guarantee you won’t survive the night.” His warriors roar at the thought.

The elf backs into Naz’ul so hard it is almost as though he is trying to pass through him. “No!” he chokes out.

Naz’ul grabs his chin and forces the elf to look up at him. “No?”

A frantic head shake. “Please, no!”

“So you would rather I fuck you?” Naz’ul questions.

The elf hesitates, but a small push toward the crowd is all it takes for him to grab onto Nazul’s furs, shouting a hurried affirmation. “Yes! Please fuck me!”

“Well, how can I say no to that,” Naz’ul leers and hoists the elf over his shoulder, ignoring his yelp. He weights almost nothing. He slips his fingers between the ass cheeks swaying temptingly close to his face, pressing against the tightly clenched furl; the elf shouts again.

Reaching the throne, Naz’ul sits and drops the prince on the floor in front of him. “While your noises are delightful, we are not yet at the screaming portion of the evening, so here is something to keep your pretty mouth busy,” he tells him, opening the laces of his breaches and pulling out his cock. The elf gapes, face going even paler if that’s possible; orcs tend to have bigger cocks than other races, or so Naz’ul heard from his warriors, and Naz’ul is the largest orc alive by far; his cock is proportional, and he has been ragingly hard since the elf first stepped into the hall, already spurting at the tip.

When the elf still does nothing but stare at him in horror, Naz’ul sighs and grabs him by the back of his head, gleaming strands of hair slipping like silk through his fingers. He pushes the elf’s face closer, rubbing the head of his cock against that sulky pink mouth. When the elf splutters, he shoves the first few inches of his cock inside, immediately warning “bite me, little prince, and I will break your jaw. Are we clear?”

Though it is clear he would like nothing more, the elf nods. The action pushes his head further down on the cock in his mouth, and though he immediately tries to retreat, Naz’ul holds him there, slowing pushing himself inside, inch by inch. Though the elf probably doesn’t think so, Naz’ul is being very careful; he has no actual intention of choking his prize or of marring his looks by breaking his jaw with a too-strong push, and he wants him to have enough of a voice left for the main portion of the evening.

It is not the best oral pleasuring Naz’ul has ever received, not by far. The elf is reluctant and inexperienced, and clearly struggling with the size. But the sight of his beautiful face flushed with humiliation and effort, his mouth stretched to its limit by the girth of the dick down his throat, cheeks hollowed even further by the action of sucking, his long lashes wet with tears, drool dripping steadily down his pointed chin, nostrils flaring as he struggles to breath and not choke… all that makes it one of the best sexual experiences of Naz’ul’s life, and it’s not even the hole he’s most interested in.

As the elf seems to settle into a rhythm, sucking grudgingly but steadily and only choking some of the time, Naz’ul lets go of his hair and procures a small bottle of oil from a pocket. He uses the oil to keep the leather guard around the pummel of his greatsword supple, but it will do well enough for tonight’s purpose. No matter how well he prepares him, it will not be a pleasant experience for his little elf, but with enough stretching he should be able to avoid actually damaging his prize.

Grabbing the elf’s waist – he can easily circle him and then some – he pulls him up on all fours, kicking his legs to spread them wide and making sure to position the prince’s ass directly to the appreciative crowd. The new position immediately creates another problem, though; with his hands bound, the prince cannot control his balance, and he immediately slides too far down and starts choking. Rolling his eyes at how much trouble one little elf is, Naz’ul pulls him off a little and frees his wrists with a knife. The skin there is red and abraded, but not actively bleeding, and does not look like it will scar. Reminding himself to take care of it later, Naz’ul positions the elf’s palms on his own knees.

At the first touch of an oiled finger to his entrance, the elf tries to jerk away, sheathing Naz’ul’s cock deeper than he managed yet and gagging. He immediately pushes back, only to impale himself on Naz’ul finger down to the second knuckle. The muffled sound of his scream is swallowed by the appreciative shouts of the watchers. Naz’ul positions a second finger and start pushing it in as well; the elf jerks away again but catches himself almost immediately against Naz’ul’s knees, holding still despite the tremors the orc can see wracking his body. The slender fingers on his knees go white with tension, so tight is their grip, when Naz’ul starts to scissor his fingers.

Over the next few minutes, as he adds a third finger, Naz’ul is almost more preoccupied with cataloguing the reactions of his elf than he is with the tight heat engulfing his fingers and the thought that soon his cock will replace them. The prince is steadily crying now, and sweat has started to dull the silvery gleam of his hair at the temples and nape. Fine tremors wrack his entire body, and every time Naz’ul brushes against his prostate the elf’s eyes seem to roll back for a second. But the most interesting discovery is that when Nazul directs his free hand between the elf’s legs, he finds him almost fully hard.

“Well, well, well,” he murmurs, too low for the spectators to hear but loud enough for the prince between his legs “it seems you are enjoying this after all. You kicked up so much fuss, begged me not to touch you, declared you preferred death to me, and yet, here you are, on your knees, getting off on sucking orc cock and being readied for that same cock to fuck you.” He is ready for the denial the prince tries to muster, and squeezes his cock while pressing against his prostate as soon as the elf tries to shake his head. The prince all but collapses with a moan, just Naz’ul’s cock and fingers holding him up on all fours where they press into him on both ends.

“There’s no use denying it,” Naz’ul whispers to him, bending over him. “It’s clear you love it, kneeling in front of what should have been your throne. And now I am going to fuck you on this throne; you will never sit on it, but I’ll allow you to hold onto it as I bend you over.”

As soon as Naz’ul pulls out his fingers and cock, the elf collapses into a sobbing, gasping mess on the floor, curling into himself. His mouth looks obscene, lips reddened and swollen and glistening with drool and precum, and when Naz’ul picks him up and bends him over the arm of the throne, he can see his asshole looks the same; the reddened pucker glistens invitingly, puffed and pouting just as prettily as the elf’s mouth.

Naz’ul grabs the elf’s sharp hipbones and pushes in in one continuous stroke, until his pelvis nestles against the white swells of the elf’s ass. The elf screams. The crowd positively shrieks with glee.

Ignoring both, Naz’ul pulls out, glances down; seeing no blood, he pushes back in quickly, setting a brutal pace. He feels his own eyes almost rolling back in pleasure – even after three fingers, the elf is delightfully tight, more than anyone Naz’ul has ever fucked, and his insides feel silkier than any other hole he ever pushed his cock into. Seeing the size of his hands and cock against the elf’s lithe frame sends a vicious thrill through him, as does the way his girth stretches the elf’s pucker so tight the rim goes almost white. Beneath him, the elf’s hair spills over his shoulders and lowered head, glinting like precious metal in the torch light of the hall and baring his delicate neck. The elf’s hands are scrabbling against the throne, trying to find purchase on the opposite arm but falling just short of reaching. His feet bang against the floor and the side of the throne as he thrashes. His screams have quieted, though a closer listen suggests this is more due to his vocal cords giving out than any real enjoyment on his part.

Twenty minutes later, Naz’ul is close. He can usually last much longer, but the earlier thrill of battle, the fact that he spent the past few hours hard as a rock, and the thrill of capturing and bedding an exquisite creature such as his little elf for the first time have all combined to push him closer to the edge than usual. Removing one hand from the elf’s waist, he cups between his legs; the elf is only semi-hard, the pain having softened him.

Naz’ul slows a little, changing his angle. He knows he was successful when the prince jerks underneath him, his cock twitching in Naz’ul’s hand. With the orc battering his prostate and pulling at his cock, the elf hardens in no time, growing wet at the tip. His limbs, which seemed to have quieted with exhaustion, tense again. Another minute, and his ass clenches down on Naz’ul cock as tight as a vice as he comes, triggering the warlord’s own lengthy, powerful orgasm. The elf slumps over the throne, motionless. He barely twitches when Naz’ul pulls out.

As his warriors bang on the chairs and windows in approval, Naz’ul looks down at his prize. His previously pale ass is reddened from the chaffing of Naz’ul’s breaches, and his hole looks properly abused, though he can detect no blood within the semen that trickles out down his thighs. There is already a ring of bruises forming around his waist and hips where Naz’ul had gripped him; when he picks the elf up, he can see bruises from the rigid chair starting to form on his hip bones and knees. His face is also reddened and wet with tears, his eyes only just open – he seems on the verge of unconsciousness, not even reacting as Naz’ul hefts him into his arms and over his shoulder again.

“Feel free to keep celebrating, you earned it,” he tells his chiefs and captains as he makes for the doors, his guard falling into place around him. “I’m going to enjoy my new prize a second time in privacy. Do not disturb me at least until noon tomorrow.”

In his tent, the first thing he does is lay the elf on the bed; away from the distracting jeering of the crowd and the urgency of his own erection, Naz’ul is struck once again by the utter beauty of his prize, even defiled and bruised as he is. The prince’s pale body seems to glow against the dark furs, tangled hair spread in a shining halo around his head, narrow chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly.

Naz’ul takes off his greatsword, taking the time to clean and maintain it; his clothes he drops in a pile in the corner, giving himself a quick wash with a rag and the water basin that has been prepared in advance. A new clean rag is used to clean between the prince’s buttocks and down his thighs; he murmurs, scrunching his fine eyebrows in displeasure, but doesn’t wake.

The last thing Naz’ul does is hunt for his healing ointment; orcs are relatively impervious, but for more serious slashes obtained in battle his shamans have prepared a special salve. Some of the ointment goes on the scratches at the elf’s temple, another on the cracking at the sides of his mouth. His wrists he wraps up in clean rags after treating them. There is nothing the ointment will do for bruising, but he smears a generous amount on his entrance, dipping inside to spread it there as well. The ease with which his finger sinks into the hot channel almost tempts him to role the elf over and mount him a second time, but eventually he decides to wait until the morning and let his prize heal a little before he has him again. Tonight was just a taste, after all; he has much more extensive plans for tomorrow, and an entire half-day with no one to disturb them.

Preparations complete, Naz’ul bundles the elf under the covers, sliding in after him and bracketing him with his body. As he pushes his nose into the prince’s hair, the smell of sunshine and ripe fruit wafts up his nose. The warlord falls asleep easier than he had in years.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve basically been imagining the orcs like a mix between Uruk-Hai and Warcraft orcs and the elves all as Legolas in the LotR trilogy. I intended my orc warlord to be a lot more brutal but he kept getting distracted by skin and hair and eyes and eventually I just went with it, don’t ask me why.
> 
> I’m thinking about writing a sequel of the morning after – which will probably be just my orc warlord pushing any and all appendages into his poor little elf several times in a row with absolutely no backstory. Just a lot of orgasms and come. Let me know if there is any interest.


End file.
